


Bacchanal of the Beard

by VapeWriter69



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Shorty is not a Loving god, oh lord hes coming, varian better run
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:08:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VapeWriter69/pseuds/VapeWriter69
Summary: There were three constants in Corona that its natives could count on one hand: the lanterns, the winter’s harvest of bimberries, and Shorty.Did someone ask for eldritch Shorty lore? no? Well here ya go.
Relationships: none that i know of
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

There were three constants in Corona that its natives could count on one hand: the lanterns, the winter’s harvest of bimberries, and Shorty. 

From the most innocuous of midsummer festivals to a royal wedding so densely garrisoned that any identification short of a royal crest was thrown back into the arms of the swelling rabble, there was never the absence of the cherubic yet ancient “Shorty.” The diminutive straggler seemed to live in a state of aging flux, with his wizened features easily turning to express a childlike curiosity as he would wander off to some undisclosed location of interest. Such behavior was met with equal looks of pity and humor, depending on the guest. After this initial gawk, most would return to their jubilation without a second thought. Then, like clockwork, he would reappear again. Often the centerpiece of whatever event had transpired over the course of the evening, creating a tableau of gluttony and mirth for all to see.

Once he had been discovered in the middle of a silver platter once filled with succulent goose legs, whose carcasses created a nest-like ring around him as he gnawed on a bone, greedily sucking out the last morsels of its marrow. This overindulgence was a recurring theme, and any Coronan planning a shindig knew to prepare for Shorty’s ravaging. Aside from his celebratory hijinks and frequent patronage of the Snuggly Duckling, it was a rare sight to see him out on his own. Until one day, when a certain alchemist spotted him wandering the stygian roads of Corona’s fishing district. 

Varian hadn’t intended to spend his entire afternoon at the palace market, but one hydraulic-powered water heater led to another vial of demetrium oil, and by the time he walked out, armfuls of alchemic equipment in hand, the lamplighters had already come down from their posts, leaving him in the encroaching darkness to find his way back. Cursing to himself, he trudged along the worn cobblestones, searching for a decent-looking inn that he could stay at for the night. As he rounded the bend of yet another shuttered storefront, he caught a glimpse of a familiar silhouette from the corner of his eye. Slowly, he worked his way back up, to see a squat figure dawdling along the thatched side of a warmly lit tavern that had managed to stay open even at that time of night. Varian immediately recognized it as Shorty, the bearded little man - gnome?- who always seemed to tag along with the cabal of pub thugs that went about town. 

At the moment, Shorty was busy, um, excising what must have been a considerable amount of mead from his stomach. After he was done, he brushed himself off, and proceeded further down the alley, with a jovial step that the young boy had never quite seen before. Although he could feel the cool drafts of the evening gripping his shoulder, something inside tugged at him to follow the elderly reveler. Call it scientific curiosity, or plain foolishness fueled by exhaustion, he found himself padding silently several steps behind. Eventually, Shorty stumbled across the path of a lute player, who looked only a few years older than Varian. The musician’s half-lidded eyes betrayed a look of stale fatigue, doubtless due to the lengthy hours of music reading and finger-picking under the watchful eye of an elder bard.   
His collision with Shorty had roused him out of his stupor, murmuring slurred words of apology. Adjusting the grip of his lute case, he tried to push his way past, but Shorty had stopped him dead in his tracks, clasping the young man’s wrist like a steel vise. The pause in his step didn’t seem voluntary, however, but as if Shorty seizing him had formed a puddle of tar beneath the boy’s feet, cementing him to the ground. Watching from behind a pile of scrap wood, Varian could spy a flicker of something in the old man’s eyes. Shorty gave the boy a crooked grin, though not one of dazed content, but of famished eagerness more befitting to a cobra ensnaring its meal. Not to waste any more time in his silent gloating, Shorty unhinged his jaw.

Varian hadn’t quite processed the transformation. One moment the old man’s jawbones were where they usually were, and then with a cacophony of snapping tendons and cartilage, the bottom half of his mouth had reached the length of his ankles. From the chasmal depths of his maw, Varian could spy a network of vines swelling just under the surface of his inner carapace, pulsing with virulent green bile. Slowly, a fog of pale lavender coruscated from inside his mouth, its tendrils reaching out towards the lute player, and enveloping him in a cocoon of what smelled like sour wine. Though frozen in place, the boy’s eyes widened with terror, searching for an escape, a sign that this was mere fantasy being played to him by the night, until the rotten perfume lulled him into a state of complacent ecstasy. Slowly, Shorty returned his mouth to its original size, with much bone grating upon bone to do so, until it once again sat underneath the straggled, and now significantly filthier, beard.

The old man walked a few steps ahead, then looked back at the boy. Irritated, he crooked his finger, hastily gesturing for the boy to follow. Immediately, the boy took out his lute, launching into a feverish melody both jaunty and sonorous, his fingers sliding up and down the neck of the lute so rapidly the welts formed on the pads of fingers began to burst, making the strings slicked with inky blood. The notes of the lute caterwauled down the streets, driving their sickly sweet sound into the top of Varian’s skull. Curling up into a fetal position, he cradled his head in his hands until he was sure the music had stopped. Shaking, he rose up from the ground and began to race back to Old Corona. He hoped he wouldn’t find any company on the way.


	2. Truth in the soil and Honey in the blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (I wanted to get this out by Halloween but college is, you know, college. Anyways, happy November 1st I guess)
> 
> What's a God without his men?

At the drowsy, moonless hour when most respectable Coronans had gone to bed, the patrons of the Snuggly Duckling had just convened for their evening’s duties. Tobias Wagner nervously adjusted the petasos perched upon his head, minding to keep his receding hairline in check. He never knew when the old man would arrive. He always just appeared, sometimes lain across the bar nursing a casket of wine, or sometimes he would announce his presence, entering with the ricocheting shouts of tympanums on his heels. 

The scarlet wax of the candles lit at every window had begun to pool across the sill, their meager glow guttering whenever someone swished their cloak or reached across the bar. Tobias was not a person who went into things with a clear head and becoming in service of the old man- why Tobias still called him a man, he did not know- was a prime example. 

Everyone that had come before Tobias called him “Shorty,” given his slight frame. Such creativity of a name was typical coming from a bunch of criminals who hadn't been under the roof of a schoolhouse for over a decade. Tobias had tried to set himself apart from the rest of them, drunks and braggarts whose dreams had been smothered long ago, fleeing to the old man with an open palm and emptier heart. No matter the means, he had the purest of intentions. How could a poor farmer’s boy go back home after digging his fingers into the soil of his own heart, growing and harvesting the fruit that had been lying dormant, fermenting, all those years? He couldn’t fathom what dancing or merriment could be until he drank in Shorty’s truth, a truth that eased the suffering, blotting his past away into complete ecstasy. 

This ecstasy led his heart through a moonlit wood until he met Assunta, glazed in a golden light that could have only been seen by him. Looking back, he knew the old man had to have shined it on her himself. Just as quickly he had torn it away, leaving Tobias clawing in the dark, his hands clutching at the spindly branches of a bay tree, its bark cutting into his palms. The message had been clear: serve for divine ecstasy or suffer divine pain. 

He blinked his eyes across the room, his eyes stinging from the molten wax, its smoky fragrance snaking up his nose. Shorty should have been here by now, his teeth stained red with wine, rasping out the commands for each man’s dark work. A shrill, nervous tap on the door caught his ear. While it certainly didn’t sound like their master, Tobias shuffled quickly to the door, opening it to find a very unwanted alchemist wringing his hands. 

“Hng- h-hey, uh, Tobias?” The boy was frantically pulling on the straps of his leather apron, as if would help keep him tethered to the ground. Tobias looked back cooly, trying to mask his irritation. The boy started again. “I uh, I thought I would ask you some questions about Shorty? I-I would’ve come earlier but um, you know, always having to help my dad with stuff, he doesn’t even know I’m here right now-” Tobias started to close the door, and Varian nearly lunged straight into it, getting just halfway into the pub. 

“Wait! Okay, sorry, I'll just tell you. Um, so the other night I saw Shorty by himself? Which I thought was weird, since he’s always hanging around you guys. And, I-I don’t know why, but I just followed him for a bit, to see where he was going. And then, I think… I think he kidnapped someone?” At this last breathless exclamation, the pub fell into silence. Tobias stared back at the boy, his jaw trembling, searching his mind for something to say. After all, it was rare for anyone to see Shorty at that time of night, much less to survive an encounter. Perhaps it would’ve been smarter had they allowed for a margin of error on the off chance an actual child got a glimpse of their otherworldly ward. At this conclusion, a peal of nasal laughter rang out from the throat of Barney Hackett, one of the newest arrivals, but quickly becoming the most often to grind on Tobias’ nerves. 

With a groan, he made his way across the pub to the boy, the steel tip of his toe clunking and scraping across the cedar floor. “ Kid, I’d love to be huffing whatever you’re cooking up in that quack shack of yours, but never in my life have I heard something so full of horse- AUGH!” Barney bowled over in pain from the sharp jab inflicted by Tobias’ elbow. “What I was saying” -Barney huffed, shooting Tobias a glare seething with venom- “Was that I think you should go on back to little stinking Herring Farm or whatever and keep your nose out of… well, things it shouldn't be in.” At that, a low, thrumming ram’s bleat echoed around the pub. The wooden floorboards and mortar walls began to sweat out rivulets of rancid honey, smelling of carrion and withered orange blossom.

It began to coat the arms of everyone in its mire, Varian retched. Tobias stumbled his way out of an encroaching puddle and heaved Varian over his shoulder. Frantically, he looked for a place to store the boy. His eyes lit up on the cellar door, at the very back of the pub. Stepping nimbly, he threw Varian as carefully as he could into the depths of the cellar, shutting the door behind him with relief. The bleating started again, this time over the fireplace.

Where it had been barren before hung the head of a massive black ram, whose eye sockets were filled with even more of the tainted honey. It writhed its varicose neck against the plaque as if trying to break free. Its bleating had never ceased all the while. With one final cry, its face began to split along the middle of its snout. The hide peeled away from the skull, like the blossoming of an evergreen violet, the flesh letting out a sound of wet tearing to reveal the honey-soaked bone beneath. The glistening jaw opened once more as Shorty poked his head out, and began crawling along the sticky mantle of the fireplace. Once finding his proper perch, he turned to his vassals, licking his honey-covered lips excitedly. From his beard, he pulled out a worn, wooden paintbrush, the tip still stained with a bit of purple acrylic. Tobias didn’t need to see the engraving on the side to know that it belonged to Princess Rapunzel.


End file.
